


The Test

by shatou



Category: Original Work
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Original Fiction, Plot Twists, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29563350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: “Spring shall cycle back - but, so what?My youth, still, could never bloom twice.”—Xuân Diệu,In hasteOliver Kitamura, professor of Ethics, finds himself falling in love with his childhood friend and former student, Akira Sørensen. But lately, Akira has been acting strange...
Relationships: Oliver Kitamura/Akira Sørensen, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a very chill final assignment my class on Gothic Literature. I pretty clearly had other characters in mind while I wrote these boys, but somehow they became OCs of their own even during the stage of conception; so I didn’t have to file off the serial number after all. I hope you’ll enjoy this little piece.

The sky of Toronto arches down with snow-pregnant clouds, not quite gray yet so lightless one could barely tell it is past midday. Busy streams of repulsor bikes and air speeders crisscross in the air, overlapping currents threading between suspended platforms and sky-piercing spires. 

Oliver stares out the window of his auto-pod, impatiently stroking his beard. He passes by a small, monochrome billboard scrolling across the side of an oldish building.

_In memory of the passengers of the EverMore spacecraft crash on Venus._

Dark words in serif font, on a tan, plain background, no fanciful animation, no flashing lights, no honking sounds. Someone more charitable might find this an ethical choice, such as a decision not to make a commission out of commemoration; but Oliver knows it is merely a concession between a signal of public acknowledgement and an avoidance of drawing public attention. No politician with the due amount of self-respect of their kind (that is to say, none) would want to stir up anew the outrage that had shaken not only Canada but the entire planet.

It happened three years ago: an EverMore craft - once considered one of the safest space travel vehicles in the solar system - crashed on Venus and killed about one third of its passengers. Certainly not when the event has mostly faded from the memory of public discourse after the survivors were rescued and compensated properly, while EverMore faced a court case and a devastating plummet in stock prices before surreptitiously bouncing back up the ladder of market shares again. 

Oliver doesn’t forget, but he must admit that his mnemonic is less any vested interest in politics and more Akira’s passionate rants on the technical inspection in the court reports - how there was evidence of negligence and non-compliance to standard safety procedures, how the fine and compensation hardly took into consideration mental trauma, this and that...

_Oh, Akira._ However his thoughts might meander, they always seem to return to the boy. Oliver sighs, glances away from the window and taps the screen between him and the cabby. “How much time until we arrive?”

The automated cabby answers in its usual, unfeeling electronic voice. “Approximately ten minutes.”

Oliver levels the cabby with a skeptical gaze. He usually would’ve taken a sky shuttle, as he’s much more of a fan of public transport than of these pay-to-ride pods and their pre-programmed auto-drivers. He thought it would save him some time today, considering the clogged traffic and the fair distance he had to travel. As it stands, the scant few extra minutes are not worth the failed expectations.

The Metropolitan Hospital is situated on the other end of the city if he takes his university as the starting point. A vast but squat dome-like structure of gleaming steel and cyan-tinted glass in the midst of skyscrapers, the hospital complex bulges towards the sky like a single eye at the bottom of a well; to date, it remains the most luminous illustration of ostentatious vulnerability in Canadian architecture. His pod lowers in altitude, approaching this display of crystalline innocence until a landing pad peeks into view. Oliver pays with a beep of his phone. Upon exiting, he catches his reflection on the window - the black of his eyes too black; the burnt sienna shade of his hair too burnt. He frowns, runs a tired hand through his hair and steps into the pristine reception hall.

The receptionist gives him a faint, encouraging smile. “Good morning, sir. How may I be of service?”

“Hello. My name is Oliver Kitamura. I believe a friend of mine has been sent here earlier this morning. His name is Sørensen, Akira. With a Norwegian _ø_ ,” he enunciates, ø like the French eu. “O with a slash across it.”

“Mr. Sørensen...” The receptionist nods, tapping away behind the counter. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kitamura, your identification, please.”

Oliver passes the barcode of his ID by the scanner. A sensor pad lights up green in front of him, with an instruction to press his thumbs onto it. The machine blares a disapproving klaxon. An error message flashes red, _Biometric code does not match_ , and then blinks back to the neutral screen. Oliver tries again; the red light stares back at him, unyielding.

“Perhaps you could try re-scanning your ID,” the receptionist suggests.

Creases deepen on Oliver’s brows, his ears and nape flaring up in heat with frustration and embarrassment as the machine continually, obnoxiously bleats rejection with every of his futile attempts for the entire main hall to hear. He scans the barcode once more, then his thumbprints, to no avail. The receptionist’s gaze bears down on him as the friendly air coldens into some kind of budding suspicion. What now, are you possibly thinking that I am some sort of impostor? Oliver arches one brow, confusion cloaking his imminent panic while mentally he runs down a list of potential people he could call, should he need to. Perhaps—

“Let him pass, Reuben.”

Oliver snaps his gaze up in the direction of the baritone voice, as does the receptionist. The dark-skinned man who has spoken stands a stride away from the glass screen, arms crossed, long, twisted locs falling haphazardly over his shoulders. He wears a crooked smile. “Long time no see, Olly boy.”

“Quentyn.” Oliver sighs in relief. “Old friend. How good to see you again here, of all places.” 

Quentyn and he both majored in philosophy before the former switched to tech. Everybody said they were an unlikely duo: Oliver Kitamura the diligent ace student and Quentyn Vincents the vagabond genius; little did others know, the two of them hit it off perfectly after they bumped into each other at a house party and bonded over their sense of sarcasm. Quentyn landed his job at the Met Hospital the same day Oliver got his tenure; they’d had a few celebratory drinks together, and that was years ago. Life forked their path in a way that kept them interacting only in bouts of half a dozen messages every six months or so. And it is quite terrible, Oliver is aware - quite terrible to have to rely on a friend you haven’t spoken to in half an Earth year. But Quentyn doesn’t seem to mind.

“There's maintenance going on,” Quentyn says by way of explanation, be it true or made-up, crouching down and taking over the keyboard. The receptionist - Reuben - scrunches up his nose; judging by his sullen acceptance, Quentyn’s overreach of authority must be a regular occurence. “There we go. One floor up, take your first left; Akira’s in the non-emergency wing, section E. Come on, Professor Kitamura.” He shrugs. “Go to your boy.”

“I’d rather you not cause people to jump to conclusions,” Oliver quips. Still, he thanks his old friend and rushes off, catching only the tail end of a confused _“His boy?”_ from Reuben and Quentyn’s belly laughter.

Cool, luminescent lights line the sterile corridors. Doors after doors of gray and white later, Oliver finds himself in a slightly more tinted part of the hallways - the famed section E, reserved for students, teachers and working engineers affiliated to the Institute of Technology. His heart thrums as he nears the right door.

The door slides open to reveal a well-lit room, much gentler and warmer than the rest of the hospital, with matte walls and a carpeted floor instead of glistening marble and steel. Oliver strides in, carefully pulling out the bedside chair so as not to make too much noise. There on the bed, amidst soft, ivory sheets, Akira lies soundly sleeping, one arm out of the blanket and hooked to an IV tube overhead. His chest rises and falls in a deep, calm rhythm; his head lolls to one side, coal-black hair spilling like a blot of ink over the white sheets. Light sheens on his thick, dark eyelashes, that are so long they cast their own shadows on his cheekbone. Beneath them, even the natural hue of his sun-kissed skin does nothing to hide the dark crescents. The boy looks ashen, exhausted, overworked.

_He is a boy no longer._ Once upon a time Akira was his little Acchan, this bright-eyed child who insisted on carrying at least one bag of groceries whenever they passed by the supermarket on their way home from kindergarten; this warbler-voiced boy who could talk for hours about rockets and robots while Oliver heated up their dinner and listened with - admittedly - half an ear.

Once upon a time they all lived in the suburbs of Tokyo, where the highlight of Oliver’s days was the few hours he spent after school to pick up Ms. Silje Sørensen’s son, to cook him food and watch him scribble and doodle and read him stories till he fell asleep. As the years went by, Akira swapped his sunflower-colored kindergarten pouch for a brand new backpack for primary school, and switched from calling Oliver _nii-chan_ to sweetly chirping sensei at him. (He began to do so after that one time Oliver showed him how to correctly write 空 - _sora_ , sky, or _kuu_ , nothingness. “No,” Oliver remembered saying, “Acchan, I am not your teacher,” to which Akira shook his head firmly and repeated, “Thank you, sensei.”)

Thus was how Oliver came to be Akira’s friend, older brother and informal tutor all in one. It might be strange to say that for almost all of his adolescence, a boy ten years his junior was his best friend; and Oliver might be looking at it through the lens of nostalgia, who is to say. Nevertheless, there is something inspiring about guileless enthusiasm that preserves itself when confronted with a system that reproduces cruelty down to the smallest units. Perhaps he found in Akira not only a fellow _haafu_ , but also a model of heartwarming innocence in the face of the scrutiny and solitude that biracial Japanese children such as them often faced. A sun-bright piece of sky in his dull room of nothingness, to this day Akira remains the only person always able to bring to Oliver’s face a smile that reaches his eyes.

Five years ago, on a day that seemed like any other, Oliver concluded his first undergrad Ethics lecture of the year with his usual invitation for students to reach out at any moment, should they require help. He was putting away his tablets when, off the corner of his eyes, he noticed a student approaching his desk - a tall young man with dark hair in his eyes. The student fidgeted with the string on his hoodie, his smile nervous, a crooked canine peeking out between curled lips.

“Hello there,” said Oliver. Upon standing up, he noted that the young man had at least a good five centimeters on him. “May I help you?”

“Sensei.” _Teacher._ Or _professor_ , more aptly translated in this context. The four Japanese syllables reverberated across the lecture hall and in the hollow of his chest. Oliver could not remember how long it’d been since he last heard Japanese, for he actively avoided it alongside all that it represented - alienation, isolation, feeling of inadequacy, an impostor in the classroom, a stranger in his own skin, an outsider by blood.

He smiled politely. Some students liked to appeal to professors in whichever way they could; this one had perhaps decided to do so on the basis of commonality in origin, and while Oliver appreciated the effort, he could not enjoy the approach. He turned away. “If you may excuse me, I have rather limited time. In the case of further class-related questions, you may reach me at...”

“ _Don’t you remember me?_ ” A slight panic coloring his voice, the young man switched to Japanese entirely. His forgoing of the grammatical polite form startled Oliver just as much as the sudden hand that circled around Oliver’s wrist. “ _It’s me Akira. I’ve missed you—_ ”

Oliver whipped around in utter surprise. Akira? This long-limbed, warm-handed freshman was Akira? Akira’s image in his memory then was still but that of the nine-year-old boy who stood no taller than to Oliver’s hip, smushing his wet, tear-streaked face into Oliver’s shirt, begging him not to leave at the airport ten years prior. By the time realization dawned on his face, Akira had already folded him into his arms. “ _Now you really are my teacher…_ ”

The Akira of their reunion softly fades towards the back of his mind, as the Akira before him stirs in a sharp intake of breath. His brows furrow briefly; his eyelids squeeze, then tremble, then heavily slide up to reveal pale amber eyes, hazy with grogginess. His gaze focuses as it travels in a gentle arc from the ceiling down to fix on Oliver. With wakefulness comes recognition, and, slowly, a wan smile. “‘Morning, sensei.”

Even in English, Akira never quite lets go of that term of address, which by now feels more like a nickname than anything. “It is afternoon, I’m afraid,” Oliver teases. He reaches over in a sigh, knuckles grazing Akira’s forehead as he brushes the hair out of his eyes. He tamps down his relieved smile and taps his finger between Akira’s brows. “Akira. You overworked yourself again, didn’t you? You scared me half to death, do you know that?”

Akira freezes for a moment, then huffs out in laughter. “‘Again’? Sensei, this is the first time…”

“First time you’ve been sent to the hospital, yes. Not the first time you passed out in the middle of work, I fear.” He softens when Akira leans against his hand. _Always so affectionate._ “When was the last time you had a full night of sleep, hm?”

Akira shrugs. “When was the last time you did, sensei?”

“ _I_ certainly did not overwork myself to the point of fainting on a work day. In all seriousness, Akira, you worry me.”

Akira looks at him with an unsaid _I’m fine_ hanging on the shape of his smiling lips. “Okay, sensei, I’m sorry.”

Oliver frowns at him. “Why do I get the feeling that you most certainly are not?”

“Because you’re a mother hen.” Akira laughs a little breathlessly.

Oliver sighs. He hardly stands a chance against that smile, with the crooked canine always defying the seal of his lips. Silence lands atop them as light as snowflakes; they have always been comfortable so, never fearing silence in one another’s company. “...What was it that you were working on, then, if I may ask? Unless it is confidential.”

“No, it’s alright. It’s not a secret… but really boring if I explain. Just a long-haul thing we got a government grant for… Anyway,” Akira clumsily segues. The boy can’t lie for the life of him, so Oliver notes his avoidant tone and allows him to change subjects without a hitch; perhaps he simply doesn’t want to reveal the details of his work, which is fine by Oliver. “When am I getting out of here, sensei?”

“Not until a doctor says you can, I assume. I haven’t spoken to any of them.”

“I just slept for a bit. Why’s it a big deal?” Akira groans, tugging lightly at the IV tube at his arm.

Oliver gives him the most disapproving look he can muster, squeezing Akira by the shoulder to make a point of keeping him still. “You and I both know you’re not qualified to say that.”

Akira deflates. “I wanna go home.”

_Home._ A certain tremor underlies Akira’s voice. Oliver regards him with softer eyes, hand carding through black hair, fingertips tracing parallel lines into his scalp. Six months into Akira’s first year abroad, his mother passed away in Japan. Oliver did not know of the terminal illness that had been eating away at Silje Sørensen for years. She left little in inheritance, so much so that Akira was barely above bankruptcy after he arranged for her proper funeral and returned to Canada. Long story short, he no longer had a roof above his head by then. Oliver, being the one with the citizenship, a flat, and a massive soft spot for this obstinate biomedical engineering freshman, offered to take him in - an offer that Akira of course fervently refused until Oliver suggested a small monthly sum of “contribution to the household”. Eventually, Akira conceded and slowly, carefully settled, while his capricious cat, Ada, immediately thought herself new master of the house. The boy has been stubbornly paying rent every month since. “I would have paid you to stay,” half-joked Oliver at some point, to which Akira, blessedly, only laughed. Were Oliver a less scrupulous man, it wouldn’t have been a half-joke, but a full truth. That place has always felt a lot more like home with Akira inhabiting it. No matter what the artists might say, being alone _does_ get rather lonely, on occasion.

Now Akira is looking up at him as though he is once more that child curled up in a compartment of the playground’s plastic house, hiding for hours and hours even after all the bullies had gone home, while the kindergarten teachers tore up the district with missing child notices. When they’d found him, nobody, not even his mother, could coax him out - until Oliver arrived, panting from the search at the riverside. Akira’s eyes were so bright with tears that they shone golden in the sunset, yet he wasn’t crying. He’d held back until Oliver picked him up, until he could properly tuck his face under Oliver’s chin and stain the collar of his shirt with tears.

“Alright, Akira.” His hand slides down, giving his cheek a gentle pat. Then, in Japanese, he utters the same eight syllables he had said on that day, in the tearful setting sun: “ _Let us go home together, yes?_ ”

(Incidentally, the phrase is also eight-syllables in English.)


	2. Chapter 2

Ada, evidently named after Lady Lovelace, is a beautiful Norwegian forest mix, black as a void with two nuggets of gold for eyes. Her appearance reminds Oliver of Akira sometimes - coal hair, whiskey eyes, a sharp canine, a certain way of tilting the head. The rest of her reminds Oliver that she has never liked him.

“Come on, my lady,” he says, scoffing up at Ada who sits on top of the window and refuses to get back in so that he could close it. She hisses down at him. “I do not have all day. I have five more minutes at most before I irrevocably miss my shuttle, and I would rather arrive at work in time.”

The lady does not respond to a peasant’s plea.

In the end, Oliver did manage to get her inside, after bribing her with three different kinds of treats. He also missed his shuttle, turned up fifteen minutes late for class, and left his unassembled lunchbox at home. Which doesn’t matter much, because two lectures spanning four hours later, his appetite has been reduced to naught. He remains at his desk, attempting to squeeze in another few hundred words on his conference paper before the day closes.

A knock sounds at the door. Oliver reluctantly hauls himself up from his seat to welcome the visitor - but it turns out he is not to be disappointed. Akira’s smile greets him on the other side, earnest and somewhat abashed, and suddenly his mood brightens.

“Sensei, I passed by home and I found...” He holds up a blue pouch, shaped like the stainless steel box inside, complete with a thermos. “Your lunch.”

“I know.” Oliver sighs, fixing Akira with a pointed gaze. “I’ve got a certain Lady Ada to thank for that.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Akira says, defensive, setting the box on the table. “It’s not like she has it out for you. She doesn’t like me, either.”

Oliver has to laugh. “That’s not something a cat owner would proudly declare, you know?”

“There’s no shame in a cat’s disdain, sensei.”

“Oh?” Oliver quirks a brow. “Who is this poet?”

“Excuse me? I’ve always been this way. I used to get above 80 all the time in _kokugo_.”

That much is true. Akira does have a natural instinct for language and literature, despite his poor memory when it comes to kanji learning. Oliver finds it amusing that Akira can memorize upwards of a hundred physics equations yet sometimes still mixes up the joyo kanji he grew up learning over and over. He rests back, for a moment letting his eyes wander to the glow of autumn sun behind his window. The light outlines Akira’s profile, dancing delicately on his eyelashes and down the gentle slope of his button nose. He seems much more sanguine today. “...I heard that you’ll be attending a long conference on Saturn in a fortnight, Akira.”

Akira sighs, tearing his eyes away from the rare patch of sunlit sky. “Don’t remind me.”

Oliver straightens up, brows furrowing. “Shouldn’t you be glad? It would be a good opportunity to connect with colleagues in your field.” And gods know Akira’s talent needs more recognition. Oliver wouldn’t spoil him or discomfort him with profuse praises, but inwardly he holds tremendous admiration for the boy. Scholarship at age eighteen, then an immediate apprenticeship in the Institute after graduation… Although he’ll miss Akira while he is gone, that is no reason to mope. “I imagine you’d fancy a project outside of the Institute someday. Earth is no good place to limit yourself to.”

“Yeah, well, that’s true.” Akira shrugs. “I just don’t want to have to fly there.”

“I thought you liked flying?” Akira had always loved the winds and the air, as a child. Aged five, he was particularly fond of being strapped to Oliver’s chest while Oliver rode his repulsor bike.

“Only domestic, sensei.” Akira smiles at him, lips so barely curved that even his crooked canine doesn’t show. “Not space travel.” A shadow passes over his features, something straddling the line between melancholy and true sorrow.

“Akira…”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Akira straightens up and brightens in genuine remembrance rather than another stumbling attempt at changing the subject. He hauls his backpack up onto his lap and rummages through it, before producing two strips of laminated paper that are a little rumpled at the corners. “There’s this show at the Aquarium, this Saturday. Sonya was supposed to go there with her friend, but they both turned out to be busy so… she gave it to me.” He rubs the side of his neck. “I was thinking—was wondering if you would want to…”

“Go with you? Of course.” Oliver pours tea from the thermos, not even looking up. “No need to be so nervous, Akira. And no need to make up that excuse about Sonya, either.” That fresh-faced engineering student with a scholarship from the Institute, who is also enrolled in Oliver’s obligatory Ethics course as Akira once was - she and Akira have gotten quite close, haven’t they? They are paired together in the buddy programme after all. No doubt Akira intended to invite her first, before turning to this old man so as not to waste pre-bought tickets, Oliver thinks, glances up just to catch a glimpse of Akira’s - predictably - reddened ears, and smiles at the boy. “You know I appreciate going out with you regardless.”

Akira groans, yet not without a smile. “There’s really no hiding anything from you, is there, sensei?”

“It isn’t quite that. You are just rather terrible at lying.”

The week passes by eventlessly, for which Oliver is grateful. He will be the first to admit that he is a creature of routine, finding joy in the usual and the unchanged, like the rising and setting of the sun, or the rising and falling of Akira’s chest as he, without fail, falls asleep at his desk every night and has to be woken up to relocate himself to bed. Saturday morning comes gently with a drizzle that seems to last all day. Still, it’s not much of a hassle given that they’ll be sheltered from the weather inside the completely indoor Aquarium complex.

Oliver can’t recall the last time he has been to the Aquarium - it has to be since his student days, and that is a good dozen years ago. Little has changed if he remembers correctly, white columns and white bars and sparkling blue panes for doors. There are exhibition halls and play corners for the children, but of course the main attraction is the enormous aquarium taking up a third of the entire complex, where they are headed. It’s weekend, with a show on the schedule no less, so of course the place is packed with families and children, and a couple of couples here and there.

Akira might as well have been one of the children, the way his eyes light up as they go through the gates and into the tunnel. A deep, vivid blue opens up before and above and all around them - blue, blue-green, violet-blue, glowing cyan where the lights shine and resting serenely cobalt in the farther corners. The vaulted, transparent ceilings complete the illusion of there being nothing between them and the waterscape, as if they are staring up from a spot on the ocean floor. Schools of fish swim by, multicolored flecks glittering in the underwater lights, and then there’s the white bellies of sharks sweeping overhead. The tunnel curves into an expanded area with seats installed - now this is something Oliver hasn’t seen before - clearly for regular showings for an audience.

The show isn’t to start until another fifteen minutes, but the air is already thick with excitement, as children ooh and ah at a flock of silvery fish, and couples (or perhaps very close friends) hold hands by the corals. Akira wanders off towards a clear tunnel wall, admiring a stingray that glides by like a dark, fleshed kite. He sneezes just as Oliver comes near.

“Bless you,” says Oliver, putting an arm around the boy. It is quite chilly here underground. “Are you cold?”

Akira tenses for just a second—why? The implication of it - that Akira is uncomfortable that they are so close in public, that perhaps he has gone too far with his display of care - sends Oliver’s mind spiraling into a brief panic, and of course he stiffens as well, for all tensions are contagious and prone to melting from one person to another.

He’s pulling back when Akira catches his wrist and beams at him. “I am.” A beat, a very loud and heavy thumping beat of his heart and maybe of Akira’s as well. “Keeping me warm, sensei?”

“If you insist,” Oliver quips, despite the warmth that rises to his face. It feels almost like a childish dare; or perhaps he only thinks so because he prefers to think of it as a jest between them. He stands closer, keeps his arm a little snugger around Akira, while the latter relaxes into him.

Two great white sharks with black-tipped fins sail gracefully before their eyes. The undulate in utter serenity, seeming nothing like the fearsome predators they are. They part water, their paleness aglow, before diving back into darkness.

“Sharks continually shed their teeth in their lifetime, I’ve heard,” Akira muses.

“Oh, truly?” Leave it up to Akira to pick up themed trivia here and there. Oliver glances at him, amused.

“Yeah, like… Shark teeth don’t have roots, so they fall out pretty easily. Takes two weeks at most. I think some only last for a day?” He smiles a bit, looking up when another pale shadow of a shark glides right in front of them.

“You have to wonder if their entire set of teeth would remain the same after every tooth has been replaced.” Oliver hums. “Or how many sets of teeth should be counted, for how often their teeth renew.”

“The shark of Theseus.” Akira laughs. “A dental identity crisis.”

“Oh, I see my lectures haven’t gone to waste.” Oliver smiles up, brows raised, entirely too pleased. “Impressive, you remembered something past exam day. Metaphysics, to top it off. Good boy.”

Akira bites his lip for a moment and bursts into laughter again. In the dim, blue-tinted lighting inside the tunnel, it’s hard to tell the colors of his face; but if his ears darken this much, then it must be quite a blush. “Well, of course. How could I not, with a sensei like you?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Akira.”

“I think it’s getting me somewhere.” Akira’s voice drops smoothly into a velvety drawl. Is it just Oliver’s imagination or is he leaning so very close? It does feel rather good this way, just their warmth mingling in the crisp air of the tunnel…

“Oi, Olly!” A familiar baritone voice calls.

Oliver smiles before he even turns towards the voice’s direction. “Quentyn,” he says, and withdraws from Akira a little. “How unexpected— Oh, hello there. You are…?”

“Alicia,” says the woman on his arm. “Pleasure to meet you.” She’s got an angular face, a half-shaven head and a runway model’s figure. She holds herself like she’s on the cover of a high-fashion magazine, and dresses like she is meant to be on one as well, in perfect harmony with Quentyn’s rather eye-catching holo jacket, the silvery iridescent sheen catching light with every movement.

“My girlfriend,” Quentyn supplies proudly. 

“Another girlfriend?” Akira shoulders into the conversation. His narrowed eyes train on Quentyn, whose gaze shifts and smile falters. “Wonder how long this one’ll last.”

“Alright,” Oliver begins, placating, “let’s not—” 

“Watch it, boy,” Quentyn shoots back, taking a step forward despite Alicia’s hand on his arm. “You won’t last half a fight with me.”

“You wouldn’t dare to start it.” Akira sneers, with such frigid viciousness that it startles Oliver. He supposes he will have to come to terms with the fact that his sweet, playful boy is also an adult perfectly capable of irrational spite, but it still sours him somewhat. Quentyn and Akira seldom meet - for good reason, obviously now. Akira doesn’t like Quentyn for his… philosophy in regards to relationships, let’s say. (Quentyn has a rather quick turnover of partners.) Quentyn doesn’t like Akira because Akira doesn’t like him.

“Yeah? Want me to show your precious Olly how little Akira’s gonna—”

“Quent.” Alicia sighs, tugging him back. “C’mon. He’s just a kid.”

Akira bristles. “This _kid_ can get your sweetheart deported within five min—”

“ _Akira!_ ” Oliver whips around, aghast. Akira recoils at the snap of his voice, still glowering and unapologetic, the point of his canine showing in a snarl rather than a smile. “Enough. That was _very_ uncalled for and you know it. I’m sorry, Quentyn, I don’t know whatever possessed him to say such a thing.”

“He’s not four anymore, Olly. Let him apologize for himself or not at all,” Quentyn grits. “Let’s go, Lish.”

Alicia gives them a lingering look. She brushes her hair back, auburn locks falling over her shoulders, and their eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she turns away to match Quentyn’s angry strides. Something in her gaze sends a tingle up Oliver‘s spine. He expected to see accusation or annoyance, but what he sees is apprehension. Surely it couldn’t have been anything more than an empty threat to garnish a nasty insult? When he looks back, he finds it mirrored in Akira’s eyes, only for a brief moment before the boy bows his head to him in a muttered apology.

Behind them, the show has already begun.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver wakes up to the sound of screams.

It comes from the attic. Quickly he slides out of bed, his feet finding his slippers in the dark. He heads out of his room in a rush, dashing up the stairs as another scream tears through the air.

Akira’s bedroom is not a room per se, but the entire attic. It would be more accurate to say that his bed is the bedroom, and the rest is his de-facto home workshop. The floor is littered with empty boxes, cutting mats, newspapers that act as coverings to keep the floor from being damaged by paints and such, and some mechanical parts or tools he has yet to put away after toiling away for hours on yet another pet project or sample. He has quite a few of those, and he discards them not in little number either. Oliver glances up at the ceiling, where a cluster of fluorescent star stickers emit a faint glow in the darkness right above Akira’s bed. He sighs, and flicks on the light in order to wade through the clutter in one piece.

Akira thrashes in his bed, eyes squeezed shut and limbs tangled in the blankets, face flushed and features twisted in some agony privy only to himself. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp, spiralling locks; sweat rolls in droplets down his temple, seeping darkly into the pillow. Oliver kneels at his bedside.

“Akira,” he whispers, smoothing the boy’s hair back, gently patting his cheek, squeezing his shoulders to ground him. “Acchan, wake up.” He is no stranger to Akira’s nightmares, as a child or as an adult, but the display has never been quite so heartbreaking. Akira gives a pitiful whimper and tosses himself onto his back one last time before going limp. Oliver’s hand finds his; his fingers curl down around Oliver’s fingers, as tight as a newborn’s clutch.

“That’s it.” Oliver leans over him, pressing his lips to Akira’s forehead. The kiss tastes of cold sweat salt. “Wake up, Akira. I’m here.”

Akira lies prone, wheezing rather than breathing, and Oliver pulls back. He continues to comb into his hair, stroke his face, wipe the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, until those eyes tremble open. “Se—Sensei…”

“ _I’m here_ ,” Oliver repeats. Japanese doesn’t sound half as awkward on his lips when he talks to Akira. “ _It’s alright. You’re safe._ ”

Akira bolts up with a sharp gasp, taking in his surroundings. He drags in another few breaths, before wordlessly surging forward, burying his face in the crook of Oliver’s neck. His fingers dig into the flesh on Oliver’s back, the tight circle of his arms so crushing it nearly hurts as he practically drags Oliver onto the bed. Akira’s body is one long solid line of febrile heat against him and Oliver doesn’t find it in him to mind. He brings his arms around Akira, rubbing up and down his spine, wishing he could take this pain away.

“ _Don’t go_ ,” Akira hiccups. “ _Please. Don’t leave me again._ ”

_‘Again’?_ Did Oliver’s departure from nearly fifteen years ago still affect him so? _Oh, lonely child._ His muffled, broken words rend Oliver’s heart into two. Akira is shaking like a leaf in a tempest, likely still plagued by whatever cruelty that his own too-vivid mind has brought upon him. Oliver carefully shifts them both into a more comfortable position, the mattress dipping and creaking under their combined weight. “ _I’m here, I won’t leave you._ ”

“ _Promise?_ ”

Oliver doesn’t need to think. “ _I promise._ ”

They stay entwined, Akira’s form tucked to his own, Akira’s heart beating against his rib cage like a hummingbird. Oliver cradles the back of Akira’s head, arms wrapped around him in a full-body embrace, rocking him back and forth a little, just slightly, just enough to remind him of the rhythm of a long forgotten lullaby.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he ventures, back to English.

Akira shakes his head, mumbling something unintelligible and likely in Japanese. His hold is still tight, but his breathing evens out, and bit by bit the tension drains. He drifts off right Oliver’s arms. Oliver honors his promise immediately, and lays down with him.

Their morning arrives sprinkled with fresh snow. Another Saturday, this one to be spent inside rather than out, and Oliver is all the more glad for it. They barely talked about last week’s incident at the Aquarium; by Monday Oliver got a text from Quentyn saying he and Akira had talked it out, the boy apologized, and that was that. Akira never said another word.

Oliver sits up in bed. He can barely straighten himself, let alone stretch, with how Akira is clinging to him. Across the room, Ada sits perched on a stack of boxes, flicking her tail with an imperious meow.

“Nng…” Akira stirs, and immediately latches onto him. “Don’t go…”

Oliver chuckles, gently prying his hands away. “Akira, I have to feed your cat.” He extradites himself from the half-asleep young man, can’t help stroking Akira’s hair one last time, and rises to his feet with a yawn. To the cat, he says, “This way, my lady.”

Ada glowers at him. She doesn’t follow him until he’s left the room.

An hour later, the cat has been fed, the plants have been watered, breakfast is done, and Oliver is comfortably settled in his favorite armchair, notebook in his lap and pen in hand, a mug of tea steaming at his side. Between now and the final exams there remain two weeks of winter break, but it is a habit of his to draft the questions early on.

_Consequentialism versus deontology…_ He taps his pen on the paper. He always hesitates between either a concrete example for his students to philosophize on, or an abstract question from which they could derive their own examples.

_All else equal, is it permissible to break someone’s finger in order to save a different person’s life? What does your answer imply for the plausibility of deontology?_

He works his way down the list of subjects they’ve covered, one by one.

_If computers were created that…_

He scribbles.

_If computers were created that could experience greater happiness than human beings, should we cede the world to them?_

“Really, sensei? _Computers_? That sounds so clichéd.”

Oliver jolts. Deep in thoughts, he hasn’t heard the boy entering. “Rather rude to read over people’s shoulders, Akira,” he chides, giving his notes a cursory shuffle. “You are not supposed to see this.”

“Your fault for writing it in the open.” Akira speaks with half a mouthful of waffle, swallows, and grins down at him. Hair rumpled and loose t-shirt hanging across his shoulders from clavicle to clavicle, he looks awfully sweet under what little light there is in the living room. “But don’t worry, sensei. Not like I talk to anyone from campus.”

“Are you quite sure?” Oliver smiles. “No girlfriend that I should know of?” Sonya comes to mind, though the thought is heralded by a pang to the chest that he could not explain.

The silence that follows is swift and hard.

“Sensei.” Akira’s voice falls. “That’s not funny.”

Oliver half-turns to look up properly, still thinking Akira might be exaggerating his displeasure to be playful. His lips part, halfway there with a quip, but the air congeals with Akira’s sudden change in mood and he realizes that Akira is dead serious.

“I don’t have any girlfriend.” Akira turns away coldly, heading back to the kitchen with his plate. “Or boyfriend, for that matter.”

Left alone, Oliver puzzles himself over the comedown of ambiance. A part of him wants to think it’s just the boy’s cranky morning mood (Akira has never been a morning person), or perhaps an effect of the residual shadow of last night’s episode (he’s reluctant to ask what Akira saw in his sleep: such a question seems intrusive no matter what). But he knows better than to pathologize somebody’s behavior over reassessing his own.

Akira returns, silent, climbing into the armchair opposite of him and curls up with an e-reader. 

“Akira,” he begins, a little while after, when Akira seems to have gotten cozy enough. Oliver clears his voice. “I’m sorry… that I offended you with that comment. I was teasing you; I believe I have crossed a line.”

Akira looks up from his e-reader, clearly caught off guard. He lowers his eyes, face dusted pink in quiet laughter. “Oh… It’s fine, sensei.”

“It wasn’t my place to assume,” Oliver explains, still reluctant to relax just yet. Close friends as they are, this subject simply does not belong to any area they tread. He never knew and still doesn’t know where Akira’s preferences lie, and he doesn’t dream to ask. Come to think of it, Akira did volunteer more information than he had to, in making that comeback. Why did he have to do so? Does that mean the interest is there for both genders, or all, or neither? Something bursts to life in Oliver’s chest, like a spark of static, a warm ember blinking awake amidst ashes; something once buried, now unfurling, blooming into warmth on his cheeks.

“Sensei, don’t look so guilty. It’s not a big deal.” Akira smiles at him, crooked canine pressing a dent into his lower lip. “Apology accepted, okay?” He slings his legs over the armrest and sinking down sideways in his seat, bare feet swinging lightly in the air. He looks so young like this, in soft, loose clothing all wrinkled up from his terrible posture, hair barely brushed yet still shining in warm light. “By the way… I’m thinking of not going to the conference next week.”

This takes Oliver completely by surprise. “How so?”

“I dunno, sensei. I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

_Is it the nightmares that bother him?_ “If you are very sure, then,” says Oliver, carefully. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on a career opportunity, but I trust your judgment.”

Akira hums. “I think I have a better thing I want to do.”

“Oh, do you?”

“You said you used to go to the yearly Solstice Ball at Concert House, right?”

Oliver’s heart spikes. The balls were merely formal events that Oliver had gone to solely as his diplomat parents required him to during his undergraduate years. Ever since he had his own disposable income and began to speak to his parents on a yearly basis or so, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. That is not to say he has anything against the tradition of winter balls, other than perhaps the opulence of it.

“Only a few times, if that’s what you mean by ‘used to’. But what of it?” It isn’t for another month. It certainly doesn’t coincide with the date of the conference.

“I want to go, this year.” Akira gives him an abashed smile. “But I don’t know how to dance. And I don’t think there’s any month-long crash course for that.”

“There is, in fact.”

Akira sits up straight, finally putting the e-reader to the side, screen down. “But I—”

“...However, I suppose you will need not only the dance lessons, but also someone to walk you through the dress code and etiquette anyway,” Oliver says, biting back a broad smile. “Was that what you were getting at, Akira?”

It takes another second before a delighted grin breaks across Akira’s face as well. “Yes. I want you to teach me, sensei.”

Oliver nods. His neglected pen is bleeding a spot of black ink into the paper, and he hardly even notices. “It would be my pleasure.”


	4. Chapter 4

The rain begins to pitter-patter at sunset, grows into a white veil across the sky by sundown, and is pounding in full force by the time night falls. Winds rasp and tap against porches and doors, rattling the gravel, slanting the raindrops. It’s colder than it is on snow days, the kind of cold that prickles you from the marrow and weighs down on you like a wet blanket.

But the sky, however dark and soaked, is shut out behind secure windows and pulled curtains. In their warmly lit living room, tender music drowns out the rain three beats at a time, the melody in violin and the harmony in piano flowing into one starlit confluence. Sentimental strings of legato infuse their surroundings, molding the currents of the atmosphere into their bobbing, dreamy rhythm, airborne in a way that makes it hard to gauge its source as the compact speakers lying off kilter on the throw blanket-covered couch. The coffee table and the armchairs having been pushed to the walls, they have a decent amount of space to themselves. And so, with socked feet on the carpeted floor, Akira’s dance lessons begin.

“Don’t be tense.” Oliver taps Akira’s shoulders, prompting him to relax. He stands behind the boy, smoothing a hand down his spine. A slight tremor accompanies the curve; it might have been just his imagination. “Keep your back straight—yes, good—but don’t be stiff. You want to be steady and firm but dynamic, not stiff and brittle.”

Akira is smiling at him, eyes alight with barely tempered excitement, when he circles back to the front. “I want to lead, sensei,” he says, preemptively, predictably. He has swapped out his loose t-shirts and sleep pants for something stretchy for the lesson: a black turtleneck and black leggings that elongate his figure into a slender shadow, contrast cutting sharp into the cozy lights of the evening. His face is flushed with anticipation, so reminiscent of his younger self.

Oliver takes Akira’s left hand, lacing their fingers together. “And your other hand behind my back, between the shoulder blades… A little lower… Yes, there, that’s it. The idea is to circle each other, and keep your partner secure and connected to you. Alright?”

Akira nods, eager. His arm does draw a gentle semicircle that seems to extend his bubble of warmth around Oliver, close to wrapping him up whole. A rather distracting thought it is, one that he shoves all the way to some back corner of his mind. He brings his hand up, pausing halfway to lift Akira’s chin; “Look into your partner’s eyes, not your feet—” and there’s a hitched breath, he could have sworn, but he doesn’t remark on it, not when Akira’s blinking at him with that timid, lip-bitten smile, holding eye contact in earnest. Even his awkward demeanor is candy sweet, leaving Oliver to laugh breathily as his hand finally rests on Akira’s shoulder.

“Now, don’t think too much,” Oliver whispers into the tiny distance between them. “Listen to the music and count after me. One, and two and three; one, and two and three…”

One, and two and three; left foot, right foot, left; forward-side-back and home; repeat, one, and two and three… The music swells as they move, not without a hitch, not without little moments of _Sensei, I’m sorry_ and a stumbling _Wait, I forgot_ , and flailing arms and knocked knees and slipping feet and schoolboy giggles. Movement to movement the opus goes on, slow, velvety glissando and bright, twinkling arpeggio weave a multicolored milky way around their flushed cheeks. Akira’s fingers curl down in their connected hands, grip tight; his steps grow more confident, his movements more fluid, his hands firmer on Oliver’s back as they turn and spin, nearly chest to chest and breath to breath. Oliver’s instructions have long quieted by then, giving way to minute praises, _Yes, good_ and _Keep it up_ , with only the occasional reminder to look into his eyes. Akira’s eyes smile down at him even as locks of hair fall into them; when Oliver takes a brief second to tuck his hair back, his knuckles accidentally brush the hinge of Akira’s jaw on his hand’s way back down. The lights in the room are too warm to tell if the ruddy tint on either of their faces has deepened.

It’s hard to recall how many pieces (“it’s not a song when there are no words, Akira, it’s a _piece_ ”) have gone by before they draw their last breathless circle on the carpet and sway to a stop. The music continues to play, now a jovial, brilliant waltz, and Akira’s hand is still on him, only sliding down to the small of his back. And somehow Oliver doesn’t want to pull back just yet, with their hands still tangled and their heartbeats still in sync.

“That was more fun than I thought,” Akira remarks, catching his breath.

“Glad to hear that you enjoyed it, because we still have much to cover.”

“Good...” Akira’s lips linger apart, like there are more words he’s still turning over in his mind. “How was it for you, sensei?”

“Oh, it was alright. Only brought back the worst memories of my college years ever, trapped in a ballroom dancing class after dark and desperately wanting to go home to do my homework, nothing too bad.”

“You dramatic old man.”

Oliver chuckles at Akira’s eye-roll. “In all honesty, though, Akira, you are quite a natural. You might not even need all of two weeks.”

Akira preens a bit. “Thank you, sensei.”

“And by that I mean for the dancing part. The etiquette is an entire subject unto itself.”

“I’m up for it.”

“I’m sure you are.” Oliver regards him soft-eyed, gently, reluctantly, prying his hand off. “We will take a look at the dress code together, just in case they changed something in the past years. And then I might have to take you clothes shopping, because as far as I am aware, you don’t own a single suit.”

Akira laughs. “You might have to drag me, sensei.”

“For the sake of your future dance partner, please do cooperate.” Oliver smiles. Akira glances down, still smiling, and so timidly at that, so embarrassed. He said he didn’t have any girlfriend or boyfriend, did he not? What is this bashfulness all about, then? The boy mumbles something unintelligible, waving a hand to brush it all off before Oliver could even formulate a sensible inquiry.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Akira declares, turning away, and all this time he’s still not letting go of that blushing smile. Oliver watches his back until it disappears into the corridor, an unnamed emotion roiling in his chest.

—

The store is a boutique type, with a small, minimalist front, all modern-cut glass panes and clean, sans serif fonts for names. Rose quartz-like granite tiles the floor on the inside, glimmering in the ceiling accent lights. The lamps are pointed at the few mannequins mounted at intervals along the walls, as if the suits on display were artworks.

Akira stands before a mirror, head tilted, sizing up his own reflection. He looks broader in a waistcoat, his shoulders accentuated and his waist trim to the point of appearing nearly cinched. He has a model-like look to him now, his gangly limbs finally finding their match in the elegant dress pants. Under the accent light, he too is an artwork, to Oliver’s beholding eyes. Isn’t he rather like the picture perfect _bishounen_? Beautiful young man, the type who would be in the spotlight in a Japanese high school, effortlessly popular with the girls. Looks aside, he is a charming boy, professionally dedicated and just so enthusiastic about the things he does. How would it feel to be someone on his arm at a formal event? Oliver wonders. How would it feel to be the one in his heart, the one whom he looks at with unbridled adoration…

“Sensei?”

Oliver jolts out of his reverie, guilty and embarrassed even of his private thoughts. “Ah, yes?”

“How do I look? I mean, I, um. I’m not used to this.” Akira gives a small, nervous laugh, as if he doesn’t already look dashing as it is. Their eyes meet in the mirror. 

Oliver realizes he has been staring for a tad too long. He clears his voice. “You look very proper, Akira.” He smiles. “Your dance partner is a very lucky person, whoever they will be.” 

Akira pauses. 

“About that… I probably would just go single. Unless…” Akira looks up, and turns away from the mirror. The silence suddenly winds tight, and tighter and tighter with every step Akira takes towards him. They are on the precipice of something and Oliver does not want to look when he falls. He stands rooted to the ground, and he watches Akira’s lips move, and he gapes as the words come through.

“Sensei, would you be my partner at the ball?”

The sort of jokes Akira makes are predictable, inconsequential little jabs, playful and oftentimes more gently childish than anything. Pranks are not truly his arena; pranks require a certain degree of farce and finesse, and this boy cannot lie to save his life. So it can’t have been a joke. Not when Akira is biting his lip so, his throat bobbing with nervous swallows, and now Oliver’s head is reeling with the implication of his invitation - is there? Is there an implication, or is it a spur of the moment decision?

“...Um? Sensei? It’s alright if you don’t… want to. I won’t, like, sulk over it or anything.” Akira rubs his neck. “I just thought it was nice, that you used to do this, and it’s also nice to spend time together, and—”

“I’d love to.” A smile dawns on Oliver’s face, too bright to keep to just a curve on his lips. Guilt be damned; Akira asked, and Oliver can have this. He takes Akira’s hand, that’s somehow hanging midair between them, giving it a brief squeeze. “Truly. I’m honored, Akira.”

Akira beams down at him, brighter than all the lights.

—

Oliver has no idea that Akira owns cologne, and the surprise is a pleasant one. The fragrance opens with a warm, spicy top note that very well suits Akira’s gelled back hair; and then mellows out into a sweeter scent, somewhat like vanilla with the thickness of cedar, and Oliver has no business thinking about scent profiles when Akira’s fingers laces into his own. Incident light scatters on his black suit, just a slight shimmer across his shoulders. He looks radiant.

So utterly different from their usual setting - of soft carpets beneath colorful, sometimes mismatched, socks, and a phone that sometimes disconnects itself from the speakers, - The Concert Hall is formal and full of light: mounted high up in the vaulted ceilings, light glitters on the chandeliers and their paler, mirrored counterparts on the tall, dark windows; down lower, at the level of banquet tables, light gleams on silver candlesticks and sparks of reflection on the rim of flutes of champagne and glasses of wine; diffused in the crowd, light shimmers on dress trains and golden earrings and diamond necklaces, and light glistens on red lips, catches in twinkling eyes, shines on carefully done up hair, such as it does on Akira right now.

And they dance, oh, do they dance. The lessons have served Akira well; he is nothing like the overeager boy of two weeks ago,stepping on toes and reeling with a look of vertigo after spins. His footwork is fluid, his spins are seamless, his hold firm and solid even when he initiates the most flowing movements. There is no lead or being led in Akira’s arms, only their spirits twining and blooming into twirls and circular steps. They move as if they are one, in sync, smooth, barely a thought given to techniques as they float on the music. They are close, firmly wrapped up in each other’s bubble and Oliver allows himself to simply bask in Akira’s fragrance - warm vanilla and solid cedar and spicy highlights. A bounce remains in his steps even as the music halts and they leave the main floor. 

“How’d I do, sensei?” Akira asks, breathless.

“Perfect,” Oliver answers, tucking a single stray strand of hair behind Akira’s ear. The boy beams at him. “Come on. Let’s get us a drink.”

It isn’t quite packed, but the crowd does feel a little snug around them as they thread their way towards one end of a banquet table, at a corner where it is a little more quiet. Akira lifts a tulip of rosé, and Oliver arches a brow.

“Careful, Akira.”

“It’s _wine_ , sensei.”

“Your point being?” Oliver grins. “Last time, I remember, you got drunk on placebo fizzy orange juice.”

“I did not!”

Their laughter rings across the space. Though it is more custom to perhaps join a circle and mingle, this is not a diplomatic exercise, Oliver reckons. He is here to enjoy himself, and it is far, far nicer to remain here with Akira alone, never bursting out of each other’s bubbles. He tends to lose track of what Akira is saying, but he would never tire of his voice - so it surprises even himself when he finds his attention splitting. There’s this figure he keeps noticing in the crowd, this woman who seems to catch his gaze every so often. She doesn’t seem to notice him, and he is only ever able to glimpse her from the side or from the back, not enough to make out anything other than her velvet black dress.

Akira speaks on about his recent lab team, and this, and that, while Oliver’s gaze strays. That silhouette is so similar Oliver cannot help but crane his neck to steal a glance. 

It startles him when his eyes meet hers. He hasn’t intended it. Both pairs of eyes go wide. He knows her very well, in fact.

It’s his mother.

A chill runs up Oliver’s back as recognition dusks on her face, grim in her narrowed eyes. She breaks eye contact and Oliver realizes that she’s staring straight at Akira.

“That is not my son,” she all but spits. Protectiveness rises in Oliver’s chest, prompting him to shift his stance and stand between Akira and the woman he calls mother. His relationship with his parents has gone from strenuous to politely distant, diplomatic as it is wont to be considering their occupation, but he can’t recall a time when they have been so outwardly hostile.

“Dear, please,” his father says.

“Mrs. Kitamura, I’m sorry, I—” Akira stammers. Oliver gently shushes him with a hand on his wrist, as surprised as he is. Akira - apologizing in public? Not to mention that he has done nothing wrong.

“You get that _thing_ away from me,” Mrs. Kitamura continues, her voice sharp as a broken bone. Oliver frowns deeply at her. The blatant objectification and disdain is downright _rude_. And this woman calls herself a diplomat? What has Akira ever done to her?

“I believe there is no need to be uncivil, so excuse me, mother—”

“Do not call me that!” Mrs. Kitamura’s voice doesn’t rise, but her eyes gleam in the hard light. “I warned you, Souren.” She mispronounces Akira’s last name with a deliberate tone and a blatant Japanese accent, as if saying the word 操練, _military drill_.

“I didn’t mean to… This was not…” Akira sounds like he is on the brink of tears. Oliver looks to his father, seeking help, but the man avoids his eyes. He feels like he’s missing something, yet can’t find the words to inquire. He takes Akira’s trembling hand. 

“Let us go.” Oliver turns his back to Mrs. and Mr. Kitamura without another word. His utmost concern lies with the boy, everything else be damned.

He strides broadly and briskly, tugging Akira to a farther and far quieter corner, even as the music begins anew behind them. Both his hands come up to frame Akira’s face: his cheeks are so hot, almost febrile, and his gaze stays glued to the ground, halfway between shame and terror. The tremor hasn’t subsided, yet Akira leans so readily into his hands, ever receptive to touch, ever eager to earn more.

“I’m sorry, sensei, sorry I…”

“Alright.” Oliver steps forward and circles his arms around his boy. He’s too lenient, he knows, but he doesn’t have the heart to interrogate Akira further. Not when Akira is shaking like this, gripped by a fright that he can’t decipher, hugging him back like a lost child.

“Would you like to go home?”

Akira pulls back, swallowing thickly. “You’re not mad?”

“Whyever would I be?” 

Akira blinks, frowning. “But there are still a few more dances…” He looks up through his lashes. “I don’t want to ruin our— your night.”

“I hardly consider it ruined.” Oliver smiles. A lock of hair falls out over Akira’s forehead again, and he doesn’t try to tuck it back this time. “If you still want to dance, we may do so here, or at home. It is entirely up to you.”

Akira lowers his head gratefully and slots his hand against Oliver’s palm. “ _Let’s go home together then_ ,” he murmurs in Japanese, soft as falling petals. They leave the chandelier and the wine and women in black dresses behind, heading into the night and down a path where soft carpet and mismatched socks and a long-haired black cat await.


	5. Chapter 5

_  
PHILOSOPHY — Part IB-Test_

_Instructor: Kitamura, Oliver_

_Paper 3. ETHICS_

_Answer three questions only. Write the number of the question at the beginning of each answer._

_1\. Are ethical judgements more like desires than like beliefs?_

_2\. Can we draw any conclusions from neuroscience or psychology about what we ought to do?_

_3\. All else equal, is it permissible to break someone’s finger in order to save a different person’s life? What does your answer imply for the plausibility of deontology?_

_4\. ‘The reason why it’s wrong to hurt an animal is not that a virtuous person wouldn’t hurt an animal; the reason is just that the animal would be in pain.’ Is this a good reason to reject virtue ethics?_

_5\. If computers were created that could experience greater happiness than human beings, should we cede the world to them?_

_6\. What sort of egoist am I if I give to charity because I want to do the right thing?_

_7\. What has morality got to do with empathy?  
_  
—

“Sensei,” Akira calls, voice rather soft. “Are you ready?”

“Just a minute.” Oliver shuffles the stack of graded exams into his shelf, shrugs on a coat and meets his boy at the doorway. It’s sunny but chilly outside, under a gentle blue sky lined with cottony white. Akira stands there beside their air speeder in a windbreaker, with a cat-eared beanie on his head. He’s endlessly adorable, smiling and flushing a little from the crisp morning air.

“I’ve loaded everything on.” Akira proudly pats the trunk of the speeder. 

“Good boy,” Oliver teases. Akira laughs and turns away, the tip of his ears glowing pink.

“Let’s go, sensei. Ada, watch over the house, okay?”

The cat only yawns at them.

Cherry trees in all suspended platforms and green squares are flowering; from up here in the sky, one can see vast stretches of white to reddish pink, tints as soft as the feel of cherry blossom petals themselves. Spring has come early this year, so naturally _hanami_ comes early as well. The custom of flower viewing might be much less commonly practiced here, but there is no reason not to enjoy a weekend picnic when they can. When Oliver came up with the idea, Akira seemed so blushingly, blessedly happy, enthusiastic as usual about the prospects of spending time with him. 

Oliver can hardly mind. Ever since the Solstice Ball, his thoughts have turned towards Akira more often than he would be willing to admit. Or perhaps the boy has always occupied his mind in such a way. Maybe Quentyn wasn’t wrong, after all. That Oliver thinks of Akira as his boy: the precious child he has grown up with, the sweet-faced young adult in his classroom, the capable engineer scattering his attic with scraps and samples. Akira in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, sitting on the floor, manipulating a circuit board with a tiny plier; Akira in a waistcoat, hair slicked back, his face sharply contoured by stark light-and-shadow play, flushed yet confident; and Akira, now, in his element, eyes ahead as he pilots their air speeder through the lucid early spring morning. 

The unexpected, brief and painful reunion with his parents only solidified something Oliver has always known: he has never grown out of his need to protect the boy. He might not always succeed - in fact, he might have failed more often than he has succeeded - but he does always try. Protect Akira, offer him comfort; cradle Akira to his chest when the boy tearfully tears his way out of a nightmare; stand between him and anyone who dares aggress him; that is all he wishes to do. Yet even then, there is something wrong with the notion. He isn’t meant to be so smitten of this boy he has known as a toddler, is he? He is ten years Akira’s senior, rather too old for such a brilliant young man. He is a mentor to Akira and nothing more - the fact that Akira so likes to call him _sensei_ is evidence enough. He barely knows a thing about Akira’s preferences and interests, and at this point, he doesn’t think he is brave enough to ask. So is it selfish to still want to be to Akira what Akira is to him: the sky, the sun and stars, the promise of freedom without solitude? It is, Oliver concludes. It is too selfish an endeavor.

“We’re here, sensei.”

The park is artificially built to rise and fall into little hills. From where they stand at the foot of a gentle slope, nearly the entire sky is covered in fluttering shades of white and pink. Cherry blossoms in full bloom eclipse even the branches and bark of the trees themselves, so dense they seem like clouds. There is still a touch of frostiness in the breezes that rustle through the flowering foliage and pluck silken little petals to carry with them. Oliver turns to Akira to find that he, too, unknowingly carries cherry blossoms in his hair.

They are not in a country where _hanami_ is a common practice, which is a blessing: no crowds, no people drunk on beer and singing too loud, no old grandmas scowling at everyone while hogging space and saving seats for her family. _Hana yori dango_ , dumplings rather than flowers, the saying goes. The practice has become much more about eating and drinking and earning bragging rights and posting pictures on social media, rather than flower viewing, and Oliver has to wonder if the Japanese nations on other planets have the same issues.

Here, there is barely anyone at the park. Across the grass there are a few children running across the mellow valley with a shih tzu, and their parents nearby, and that is it. So Oliver can simply ask, as he opens the trunk: “Where would you like to settle?”

“There, sensei.” Akira points to the top of the hill, right beneath a great cherry tree with a bent trunk that makes it look like a crouching person, whispering pink sweet nothings to the winds.

“All the way up there?” Oliver asks, only teasing. “Well then, alright. If you carry the picnic basket.”

“Gladly.” Grinning, Akira lugs both the basket and the bag of mats and other utensils onto his shoulders before Oliver could protest.

It is a short, paradisiacal walk to their chosen spot. They roll out their mat and set down their basket. Light food, tea, and books and e-reader, and they are well set for the day. It is enough to soak in the tranquility of it all, in each other’s presence. Sunlight dapples through the clouds of blossoms, toasty warm as morning grows late and noon rises.

Akira’s voice is clear as windchime in the balmy silence. “ _There are bodies buried beneath the cherry trees._ ”

Oliver tears his gaze from his book and glances Akira’s way. The boy has got this faraway gaze, almost forlorn. His Japanese has such a pretty ring to it, Oliver notes, and cannot believe he has never noted this consciously until now. He’s sure he has never liked listening to Japanese until Akira spoke it again to him, in the lecture hall five years ago. He has started loving it ever since.

“ _How otherwise do you think the blossom could bloom so splendidly?_ ” Oliver recites in reply, earning from Akira a look of surprise, and then a little laugh of delight.

“You remember it by heart, sensei?”

“Only the first few lines.” After all, Kajii Motojirou’s _Beneath the Cherry Tree_ is not part of the literature curriculum, not even in highschool. The story is otherwise well known for its shocking opening line, but the rest of it - the meditation on beauty and death; the abstract unsettling feeling and the hushy second-person musings addressed to the reader, interspersed in the prose; the visceral, yet not one bit gory, imagery utilizing only what is utterly natural and almost commonplace - is seemingly lost in the endless purgatory of famous literature too often recycled to be read in its original.

“I never liked that story.” Akira sighs, laughter vanished.

“Don’t you? I find it rather remarkable.”

Akira shrugs. “It is; it’s very beautifully and thoughtfully written, which I appreciate, but I don’t like it. All the talk about death and decay when you could have just admired the beauty that is there. Spring is short enough as it is. The flowers are fleeting enough as they are. See?” He raises his hand in a spot of sunlight, catching a whole blossom that has fallen from its stem. “If you give me a blessing, sensei, I would not question it. Some things - no, actually, a lot of things - are so fragile that they could disintegrate if you so much as think about them. Kinda like how certain particles morph just upon you looking at them? Then again, what do I know about quantum physics…” He smiles faintly at the fallen flower, rolling the bottom between his thumb and forefinger, so that the petals slowly spin. “Why can’t cherry trees just be cherry trees? _Why can’t they just bloom splendidly without dead bodies buried beneath?_ ”

“I could pose the same question to you.” Oliver hums, setting down his book. “Why do death and decay take away from the beauty? Death is, after all, on the other side of the coin alongside Life. Say if there truly were dead bodies beneath these trees, would it make any difference whether you know it or not?”

Akira shakes his head. When he turns to Oliver, his eyes have a wet sheen to them. His smile is so, so very sad before it fades. “You don’t get it, sensei. You are still thinking about it like a philosopher. I’m not a philosopher.” And Oliver understands. He softens.

“Ignoring death does not make it go away, Akira,” he says with utmost gentleness.

Akira looks at him for a long moment, as if he intends to challenge it. Then he just smiles, wider this time and perhaps still a little strained. Oliver opens his mouth, only for Akira to speak up right that moment. “Right. Pass me the thermos, will you, sensei?”

Oliver nods. His own words ring back at him, telling him he’s a hypocrite. _Ignoring_ anything _won’t make it go away, Kitamura_ , he thinks to himself. There is that feeling again, the flutter in his stomach, the swelling warmth in his chest, when he steals a glance at his boy.

The subject of their conversation returns to something more mundane, more lighthearted, more apt to make Akira smile the way he always does. The sun reaches midheaven, and there are more noises about them - more families, more children, more couples. Faint noises, still; there are few enough of them that they remain scattered across the park. Oliver’s attention returns to his book; Akira shuffles closer, up against him, not unlike a feline.

“Hey—Oh,” Akira pipes up all of a sudden, laughing at something from afar, seemingly not to him. Oliver doesn’t look up, even as the boy sits up, giggling. “Sensei, come on, you need to look at that!”

“What now, Akira?” Oliver glances up.

“No, not that way,” Akira, still laughing, grows impatient. “Here, over he—”

Oliver turns, lips parted. Akira surges up, smiling.

Their lips meet.

It is only a light brush that lasts for half a second tops. The seconds that follow, though, petrify and stretch out into a century. Oliver stares at Akira, wide-eyed and tongue-tied and flushed from neck to tip of the ears.

“...Sorry,” he manages, ducking away. But then a gentle, calloused hand comes framing his jaw. Akira thumbs across his bottom lip, and Oliver stops breathing altogether.

“It’s alright.” Akira is breathless, yet a heady sureness infuses his tone. His face is pinker than the petals that stray in his hair. Though his mouth is agape, his breaths are bated. His crooked canine peeks out under his lip. “Is it, sensei?”

It might as well have been a _Can I?_ Oliver blinks owlishly. Ignoring it won’t make it go away, be it death or life or love. He cups the side of Akira’s neck; the boy’s pulse batters against his palm. If he leans any closer, he might be able to feel Akira’s lashes on his skin - those thick lashes that cast shadows of their own, that flutter closed so prettily the moment before Oliver’s eyes fall shut as well.

Soft and slow and smelling of cherry blossoms, their lips pillow against one another, not quite deft but entirely intent. Oliver’s hands slide, unable to help themselves, cradling the base of Akira’s skull, circling around his waist, pulling his slender body closer and closer until they are fit to sink into one another’s skin. Akira’s fingers twine into his hair as their breaths mingle as one.

_We’re under the cherry tree_ , Oliver thinks, distantly. Akira hums so sweetly against him, leaning into him, chasing his mouth. _We’re above the buried bodies._


	6. Chapter 6

Nothing changes.

Not in the sweet way; not as in ‘they find home in one another, as love is only the next natural step to their already profound bonds’. No; nothing changes, as in they act as though the kiss never happened at all, as in neither of them speak of it. Akira certainly doesn’t, acting as jovial and innocent as he ever is. Oliver doesn’t want to bring up the subject when the boy is so adamant on shoving the incident away. It’s as if whatever transpired beneath the cherry tree stayed there, buried in the ground along with the putrid carcasses twisted in the tree’s roots.

_Where it belongs._ Perhaps so; perhaps that is all he deserves - a shocked kiss and no more. Oliver finds himself trapped in a double bind: on the one hand, he dares not dwell on the incident, on the look in Akira’s eyes and the curl of his fingers and the warmth of his lips, because it feels wrong, like he’s unearthing something that’s meant to be buried; but on the other hand, he is frightened that the memory of it will fade, dissolve, like corpses disintegrating into the earth. If he could mummify his memory or trap it in amber without having to touch them and relive them and hear the sound of shattered hope all over again, he would. He could not.

He shuffles his bag back and quickens his strides. His phone pings on his way to the sky shuttle station. It’s a message from Akira, as chipper as ever.

_im off early today. i can give you a ride? :’D <3_

Oliver lowers his eyes at the heart icon that ends the text like a second punctuation mark, emblematic of Akira’s easy affections. How enviable that is; how tormenting that is. He tells Akira that he shall wait for him before a storefront someplace across the street, for he has already gotten outside of the campus complex. Akira sends him back a thumbs-up sticker, and that’s settled.

For what it is worth, he sees that Akira is trying to be as kind as he could without hurting himself. There is a low tension strung between them, underlain in every casual laughter and teasing words; they both ignore the blossoming cherry tree in the room and the dead bodies would not go away. The incident was a leap, a coming to terms with his own tremulous heart, that Oliver has been quasi-forced into taking, and he regrets it. Strong as his resolve might be, he cannot help but mourn the pure ease between them before. Akira is his refuge of peace of mind, his shelter from an ever complexifying world of interwoven relationships, too many people to please and too few people to adore. He should know better than to anchor on one single person and wishing against nature that this person will be a constant, the constant, of his life, but by now the damage is already done. Perhaps he needs the boy more than he should like to admit; perhaps he is afraid of his attachment influencing him to ruin their friendship and thus, his own safe haven.

Oliver comes to a stop at the edge of the pavement. There is no clock nearby, but somehow, there is a ticking, gentle little beats that mimic his pulse but don’t match it. It doesn’t climb in speed, but in volume, the _tick-tock tick-tock_ gradually crescendoing as if building towards alarm bells. A sense of danger prickles his nape, behind his ears, sending a chill down his spine. And when the whispering intensifies and the cries and shrieks and screams burst out, Oliver’s gaze snaps up.

Something of great mass crashes down from the sky. Oliver startles and springs from his spot. He is barely quick enough. The smoking speeder grazes him just before it collides with the glass panes behind him. Beneath the shattering sounds, something within himself gives a gut-churning crackle. He skids on the ground until friction cancels out momentum and lies there in a wheezing heap.

“Sensei! No, no, no, _sensei_!”

Strong arms gather up his broken body. The last thing Oliver feels is soft hair tickling his cheek, and the world goes black.

_—more like desires—_

_System Configuration…_

_—reject virtue ethics—_

_Initializing…_

_—cede the world to them?_

_All Systems Online.  
_

With surprisingly little difficulty, his eyelids slide open. His vision is blurry; his eyes refocus, and the images sharpen. He’s looking at stars, plastic stars. Glow-in-the-dark stars spread out on the ceiling above him, not quite emitting light in the too-diluted dimness of the room. He stirs. This is Akira’s bed.

“Sensei!”

Hazel eyes meet his own, red-rimmed, pupils blown; the feverish brightness of fear and panic trembles in them alongside a gentler light of relief. Akira looks almost harrowed, kneeling by his bedside, his hand clutching Oliver’s in the most despairing of ways. His voice is nasal.

“You’re awake… Oh, you’re awake.” The boy slumps. Oliver raises his free hand - it’s heavy, but he manages. He cards a hand into messy black hair, and Akira draws in a sharp, dry sob. “I was so worried, I…” He wipes his face and tries for a pale smile. “How—How do you feel, sensei?”

“Quite alright,” slurs Oliver. His chest warms when Akira’s smile brightens. “I don’t feel any pain.” Perhaps it’s less serious than he remembers. 

“Yes,” Akira breathes. “Good. That’s… really good. I’m so sorry, I should’ve texted you sooner— You could’ve just, you could’ve stayed inside, I’m—”

“Acchan, shh.” His hand slides down to frame Akira by the side of his face, thumb skimming the dark circles under his eyes. “Do not blame yourself for what you can’t control. I’m here, I’m alright. I promised I wouldn’t leave you, didn’t I?”

Akira presses his lips down into a quivering, tight line, and nods. Oliver makes to sit up. The boy helps him, eases him into the position, cradles his still-heavy head. He glances around: Akira’s attic-bedroom is as cluttered as ever, but he sees something that looks like medicine and bandages on the nearest surface. He looks down at his own hand, where black bruises peek out from beneath the sleeves.

“I would say that you did not have to put me in your own bed.” For the purpose of surveilling, Oliver guesses, a small smile gracing his lips. “In all seriousness, Akira, I am… truly grateful you worry for me. You did not have to do so much.”

“I do,” Akira declares quietly. “You’ve always taken care of me, sensei. Let me take care of you too.”

Oliver’s smile fades. Too many emotions swell in his chest, buzzing, overheating. “You shouldn’t…” His voice is hoarse, near cracking. “You shouldn’t say… those things, Akira.”

Akira looks at him. It would have been better if the boy looked puzzled, but he only seems torn and tired. “Why, sensei?”

“You are too sweet for your own good. Or for mine.” He feels ashamed to express such a thing. He wishes he could simply cherish their friendship as the hallowed thing it always is; wishes that words of affection and devotion wouldn’t stab him in the chest like the sharpest reminders of non-reciprocation. He hates nothing more than the hints of grudge he finds in himself, that taint his innocent, familial and friendly love for Akira. He does not want to hold anything against his boy. But the pain is a little too much to bear.

“That isn’t true.”

“It is. And I am not you, Akira. I think I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the cherry blossoms again until I acknowledge the bodies beneath the tree.”

Silence curdles between them. Oliver cannot hear himself, only feel his mouth move as it shapes the words:

“I love you.”

Those three words don’t seem half as heavy now as when he keeps it within. The tension is still wound tight in the air, and Oliver forces himself to look up. Akira looks at him not with surprise, but with sorrow that he cannot decipher. His soft lips part and form four words of Akira’s own.

“Give me some time.”

Oliver smiles bitterly. He means to say some words of reassurance, but Akira has already turned his back to him.

—

Oliver startles awake, hazy and confused like someone who has slept for too long. It must have been the effect of the accident the other day. His bedside clock says it’s Tuesday, 10:34AM. He has classes to give at 8 on Tuesday.

“Shit,” he mutters, flinging his blanket to the side. Why in the world did his alarms not go off? He leans over to the nightstand and snatches his phone. Strangely enough, there are no missed calls, no messages, not even the automated email that questions his absence.

Oliver rubs his eyes. The series of bruises on his arm haven’t faded one bit since the accident, even though he has been religiously taking his medicine and applying the relief gel. Well, he hardly has the time to do that this morning. He supposes the best course of action is to get himself out of bed and awake enough to begin sending a few emails, calling a few people. A most daunting task, but he has brought this upon himself, accident or not. He pockets his phone, paces to the window and pulls open the curtains. Gentle sunlight streams in and lines the inside of his room. Nothing is out of the ordinary, except…

Oliver frowns. On the other side of the glass pane, there is a ripple and a cyan tint to the air, in the space framed by his window. He opens it, lifting a finger to the rippling field. It zaps him at the lightest contact. His heart sinks to his stomach; cold dread grips him by the scruff of the neck. This isn’t right. And where is Akira? Is he in danger; will he be able to come home, come inside? Who is doing this? Oliver dashes out of his room and into the living room. Ada hisses at him on the way.

He means to go to the main door and unlock it to see if there is that same odd static field beyond the door, but turns out he doesn’t even need to check. The TV before the couch is turned on, soundless with only a single frame on the screen. Black letters etch on a white background, unmoving. Oliver stares at it, frozen with confusion and then primal fear.

_I’m sorry, sensei. Give me some time. - S. Akira_


	7. Chapter 7

Oliver tries everything. He checks all windows - bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom - and all doors - to the balcony, to the back of the house - and even the vents in the basement; but all entries have been barred with the damned electric field-fence. He has tried more than once to touch it, getting zapped lightly every time, until he pushes too hard and electricity pulses through him till he smells smoke and he stops, unable to fathom how much he resembled like a stubborn animal butting its head against a glass jar then. When he goes to the attic to see if the ports on the roof are any hope, he finds the doors locked, and he doesn’t have the keys. There is no tool in the house heavy enough to beat the door down.

The telephone line has been cut, as is the Internet router. Whatever technology the field-fence is, it has also blocked his mobile phone signals. He discovers a toy of a text messenger on the coffee table in the living room. There is no doubt as to who is connected to it. There are already three messages there, sent consecutively earlier this morning.  
_  
i’m so sorry_

_please wait for me_

_i promise i’ll be back  
_  
It’s no reassurance. It’s fuel to fire. Anger, but also confusion and fright, overwhelms him to the point of numbness.

_I don’t understand, Akira_ , he types out on the tiny screen of the text messenger, fingers trembling. _Why are you doing this to me?_

He doesn’t have the heart or the serenity of mind to wait for an answer afterwards. He drops the thing amidst cushions on the couch and sinks in there as well, his face in his hands.

How could Akira be behind all of this? His sweet boy, who smiles at flowers and blushes from having his hair tucked back behind his ears; who used to dance with him like a fawn in this very room, on these very carpets; who used to curl up in that armchair right over there, t-shirt so loose that the neckline nearly fall over his shoulder. Akira who cannot lie to save his life. How is this possible?

And what is _this_ , even? Oliver doesn’t even know what kind of restraints have been placed upon his house, what sort of engineering has had to be done in order to cut him off completely from the world like this. Why? This is his own home. Sooner or later, if nobody finds him, if he doesn’t go to campus to give lectures, the university administration would have to raise alarms. Suddenly he regrets not being in contact with Quentyn or even his aloof parents more often; almost everybody in his personal life is used to his scarce messages that are spaced weeks, even months, apart. They won’t notice that he is gone before the authority does. And the authority seldom notices someone is gone before the departure is irreversible.

Hours later, the messenger lights up. Akira’s returning message is only: _i’ll explain later._ Oliver can’t be bothered to reply.

A day passes, then another, and another. Not a word from the outside; not even a delivery droid or a curious auto-pod driver. Either the electric field-fence is near invisible to most, or it is simply that nobody cares. But why?

Food begins to run low in the house. Small blessing it is, then, that he has no appetite. He doesn’t take his medicine or apply the gel anymore, and his bruises stay unfaded. He does still feed the cat, who only comes out to eat when he is not in sight.

He feels numb. He has turned over everything in his mind, every memory that he cherishes. His joy and love have been punched into shards that now stab him all along the spine, everywhere between the ribs, driven into his heart. He cannot reconcile the Akira that he knows with the person who has kidnapped him inside his own home. How could he? When he closes his eyes and thinks of Akira he sees the child the boy the man the brilliant light the hot beating heart and gentle eyes and warm lips and—

Petals. Cherry blossoms, falling, catching in black hair. Whole flowers plucked off from the stem; rolling between fingers. A smile, gentle, with a crooked canine. It hurts to even let his thoughts graze the happy days. He doesn’t understand.

On the fifth day, Oliver sends another message. _I’m sorry if I have wronged you in any way, Akira_ , he writes. _I would like to atone, but I could not do that alone. Please let me see you at least._

Akira answers him a few hours later. _its not your fault. im just. workin on smtg. im sorry_

On the sixth day, the cat Ada refuses to eat or drink, and Oliver notices that he hasn’t eaten or drank at all himself. He doesn’t feel any weaker for it, but he does worry about the cat, somewhat.

On the seventh day, Oliver realizes he hasn’t been sleeping, and he still feels entirely lucid, if not a little agitated. When he looks into the mirror, he sees no circle under his eyes.

On the eighth day, he gives up on trying to make the cat eat again. He sits in the living room and stares at the unchanging TV screen. _S. Akira._ His chest pangs just looking at the name. He wishes he finds it in him to be properly enraged, rather than despair in this manner.

On the cusp of the ninth day, the front door clicks and shakes. Oliver nearly jumps out of his skin.

Akira is there.

Dark crescents draw heavy under his eyes. His hair is unbrushed, his face ashen, his clothes all crooked. “Sensei,” Akira says, taking a step forward, and Oliver is unable to suppress a flinch. “I’m—I’m really sorry.”

“I’ve had enough apologies.” Even as Oliver tries to be stern, his voice shakes. It hurts him, the way Akira hangs his head and picks at his hands. “I want explanations. Why, Akira?”

Akira’s lips quiver. “I can’t fall in love with you.”

A beat, then dry, incredulous laughter bubbles up Oliver’s throat. All that for _that_? “That is hardly a reason to _lock me up_. Did you think I wouldn’t have given you time otherwise?”

“That’s… not it,” Akira utters, his voice small and fragile. “I can’t, because it’s wrong, because, because I’ve failed…”

The boy is shaking now, knees buckling. Some insane part of Oliver’s instincts surge; he cannot let Akira crash to the ground. So he does dive forward, and he does catch Akira in his arms, and Akira latches onto him.

“I—I’m so, so sorry. I’ve failed you, sensei.”

Akira heaves in a broken breath. His hand presses tight to the back of his neck. His fingers dig into flesh, just below the base of Oliver’s skull; they drive into something sharp and inhuman and inorganic and— _Click._ Oliver’s vision blackens in a gasp. Akira trembles like a leaf, in the tempest of his own words.

“You are not human. Oliver Kitamura died three years ago.”

—

He is dimly aware that he’s not awake. It is a state not unlike lucid dreaming, except for the fact that he cannot claim to control anything. His consciousness floats in a blank holding space. Then something crackles to life, static buzzes, and…  
_  
“Sensei, come here.”_

_The image shook slightly in motion blur, accompanied by the sound of a giggle. Akira’s face came into frame._

_“What is this now, Akira?” Oliver’s voice rang. The camera turned and now they were both in view, Akira with a bright smile, Oliver wearing a somewhat quizzical expression beneath glasses. “Another one of your video logs?”_

_“Yep. Right, so, recording on the twentieth…” Akira tamped down his grin. “Tomorrow, Professor Kitamura is going to have his first interplanet conference ever in his life on Venus. And he’s going to take a…”_

_He glanced at Oliver, nudging. Oliver sighed, “Really,” but then still decided to humor him. “An EverMore ship. Honestly, Akira, I told you, I was paid for. It_

_“It’s still cool, sensei! It’s expensive as hell to fly EverMore! Man, I wish I could go to space too…” He pouted, and Oliver smiled fondly, ruffling his hair._

_“I so wish I could take you along as well, Acchan.”_

_“Stop calling me that…” Laughter faded, and more motion blur, and—  
_  
The video ends. He is thrusted into nothingness yet again, unable to do anything but wait. He hears fragments; he glimpses other files that are not videos - images, screenshots, news articles, websites, social media posts, timeline updates, word after word of Passengers alive and Rescuing operations and Hope for the families. 

A short audio file pops up and auto-plays.  
_  
“Hey, um, quick recording…” Akira’s voice sounded higher, younger, more vulnerable in the grainy electronic twang. He was nervous. “I—I think there’s some hope. Like, yesterday they brought back the first group of rescued passengers. Oliver’s probably fine. I don’t know, I think he’ll come back, I mean… We’ll see, huh?”  
_  
The next file is the picture of a printed obituary.

Oliver did, in the end, return home. In a casket.

_Oliver Kitamura died in the EverMore spacecraft crash on Venus three years ago._ He doesn’t have time to process the full meaning of it. 

The next files scroll by fast. They are less images and more preview of documents.  
_  
Grant no. 938402AD-4, in accordance with Circular 98 regarding federal support for technological development…_

_…an android serving the role of educational personnel…_

_…remain undisclosed, under the direction of Mai Phạm and coordinated by Elliot Sonder, Irene Blackburn, Yu Chen..._

_...that the construction and surveillance by Akira Sørensen as head engineer and project director will…_

_...one year from the day of activation. Progress report under the responsibility of Akira Sørensen…_

_...where Akira Sørensen elaborates…_

_...Akira Sørensen…_

_Akira Sørensen.  
_  
Akira built the vessel. Akira built the android - that is to say, him - based on his dearest friend, his mentor, his everything, under a government-funded project.

An entire folder of images springs to life. Oliver, all of them are pictures of Oliver - his hair, his eyes, his skin and the down on his skin. There are color samples and comparisons, and 3D renderings and sketches. Everything to make him as accurate to the late Oliver Kitamura as possible. But accuracy demands more that likeness. Accuracy needs…  
_  
The living room was understated and elegant, minimalistic in a way that showed money in every cut. The images didn’t shake at all, as though the camera was mounted on a tripod. A couch faced two armchairs with a coffee table between them. On the couch were seated Mrs. and Mr. Kitamura. Opposite them, fidgeting in the armchair, was Akira Sørensen._

_“I do not accept,” Mrs. Kitamura’s voice cut sharply through the air._

_“But, please consider—” Akira tried shakily, gaze flickering towards Mr. Kitamura, who stayed silent and ignored him._

_“No, Mr. Sørensen, I will not consider anything. I find it extremely unethical for you to build a vessel in the image of my deceased son, and I will not consent to giving you information to recreate his past memories. Those are my final words.”_

_Akira hung his head. “...I understand.”  
_  
The video cuts off. An empty folder marked KITAMURA CHILDHOOD passes by. There’s only a single developer comment attached to it: Center around your own. Akira didn’t get the details of Oliver’s past. Perhaps that is why the memories of his time in Japan only consist of the boy Akira. Perhaps Oliver’s relationship with his parents has never been strenuous.

Perhaps all of it was a lie, told to him by…  
_  
“...the past ten years?” Quentyn’s voice rose. The recording was only sound, no image. The audio was muffled and mired in background noises, with the occasional ear-grating swipe and brush like a hidden microphone accidentally brushing against fabric. “Kid, you’re tellin’ me that you want me to disclose my ex’s personal detail so that you could build a robot for the cops?”_

_“Not cops— Where the hell did you even get that part?” Akira sounded like he could barely contain his contempt._

_“Well you said it was confidential or some bullshit.”_

_“Yeah, but I also said it’s for educational purposes.”_

_Quentyn barked out a clipped laugh. “That sounds like a damn Internet meme to me.”_

_“Please, Quentyn.” Akira’s voice trembled. It wasn’t condescension; he truly was begging. “I—I need this. I need to do this. It’s not…”_

_A long pause, some shuffle, some more background noise. Quentyn sighed._

_“He means that much to you, huh?”_

_Akira didn’t answer._

_“You started off on the wrong foot trying to blackmail me, Akira,” Quentyn continued, with no attempt to conceal the pure pity in his voice. “But you know what, fine. Come in here and I’ll give you something to note down…”  
_  
Akira never logged any memory of Oliver Kitamura once dating Quentyn Vincents whatsoever. That is why there are so many gaps in his memories of Quentyn in the years of their friendship and fling. Is it because Akira has never liked Quentyn? Or is it because he didn’t want Oliver to have eyes for anyone but him…?

The next files filter past, one by one. Design notes, calculations, blueprints, and development logs. Version 1.1 never managed to power any of the motor control modules. The core power was not enough, and the initialization process was only half completed. Audit logs showed that the sensory system did begin to write into the random-access memory as it rapidly processed information from its environment. The main unit was even beginning to analyze images and to compare them to pre-coded memories.

Version 1.2 shut down immediately after initialization. Only a brief inspection was needed to find out why: the coding was too clunky for the current routing of the motor wires, and the sensory system was a wreck. Separately the systems all worked, but when put together into a whole, the few main boards in the central processing unit short-circuited.

Amendments led to version 1.3, then 1.4 and 1.5 and on and on. Sometimes the rewiring affected the language center; sometimes it neutralized the motor controls; sometimes, all functions seemed alright until a few hours later, the operating system shut down again unannounced, only for a logical error to be found later further down in the algorithmic loops. Around version 1.8, the program was completely refined, the various modules synchronized, the memory storage optimized...

The logs abruptly shift into a video - another diary entry.  
_  
“I have to…” Akira sobbed. His face was half-hidden, but the streaks of tears still caught light and glistened. “I have—I have to do this. I want to see him again… I miss him. I miss him so much. I’ve never…” He hiccuped. The image blurred as clicking and shuffling sounds invaded the audio. Akira grabbed the device, probably to turn it off. “I never told him that I loved…”  
_  
The video turns off. The lineup of files come to an end, but the automatic playing is still on. It returns to the very first video in the entire list, which has somehow been skipped past in the beginning - the video dated on a day more than four years ago.  
_  
The image focused. A cat - a beautiful Norwegian Forest mix, with a long black coat and golden eyes - appeared on screen, trotting on the floor. The camera followed the cat as she hopped onto the couch, where a figure was already seated. The figure was Oliver Kitamura, a book in his lap. The cat rubbed up against him, meowing, and bunting her head into his palm._

_“Good girl, Ada.” Oliver smiled. The camera approached, until it turned around and showed Akira’s face as he settled beside the older man. Oliver turned to him. “I’ve always thought she looked a little like you, Akira.”_

_Akira laughed. “How old’s she, sensei?”_

_“Old.” Oliver grinned. “Old like your sensei.” He chuckled when Akira grimaced. “I don’t know, Akira, she is a rescue. She doesn’t have a pedigree, obviously. The vet estimated that she was about a year old when I got her.”_

_Akira hummed thoughtfully. “...Why Ada, sensei?”_

_“Well, I’ve always liked Nabokov…”  
_  
The video fades out. That was Akira’s first day moving in. The cat was not Akira’s; even her namesake as claimed by Akira was a lie. The cat was _Oliver’s_. No wonder why she hates him - she knows he’s not Oliver, knows her true master is dead. Even a cat knows that he is not the person he thought he was. And he doesn’t. Because from the moment he opened his eyes for the first time, he had been lied to, by…

Akira. Akira who built him, in the image of he whom he loved.

“...that day, when I was hospitalized, I was… actually finishing up to finalize your software.” Akira’s voice softly cradles his sense of hearing. He is coming to, awakening again, facing the stars. Glow-in-the-dark stars, so innocuous, so utterly _normal_ up there in the ceiling. “I started the project right after… he was cremated.”

He sits up, looks down at his arm, and widens his eyes. Instead of skin, he finds machinery and metalwork, alloy ligaments wrapped around steel rods for armature. He turns to find Akira sitting by the bed, looking down into a piece of synthetic skin that he’s mending in his hands.

“I swear to you, sensei, I did not force you.” Akira’s voice is hoarse and hollow. “I just compiled as many memories as I could. I know I left out Quentyn and Ada and— I’m so, so sorry, but I swear, the rest is as true as I could manage.”

His life is, in its literal sense, a lie told by Akira Sørensen. His memories and soul belong to someone else, this man called Oliver Kitamura, who had parents, friends, lovers, pets. He does not. He is not a person. His _raison d’être_ is to be a replacement; he doesn’t know how much of him is the real Oliver’s memories and how much is Akira’s fabrication, or if it even matters. He is not Oliver Kitamura. He is an android, a machine, designed to be a paltry copy of Oliver Kitamura but could never actually, truly become him. Created to fail. Made to be loved, but unable to love back. How cruel is that?

But he is loving back, he wants to say. And yet - does he? What is this feeling - does he truly love Akira back, or is this just a natural conclusion of his biased data and skewed algorithm? What even is that thing called ‘love’? What engenders it? What makes it real? What is the difference between a love that is implicitly pre-programmed, and a love that simply just is? What, among the four hundred thousands files on the philosophy of ethics installed in his memory, can help him answer this question?

_If computers were created that could experience greater happiness than human beings, should we cede the world to them?_

“...I don’t know what to do.” Akira bites his lip. “I didn’t intend this. You’re not… supposed to fall in love with me. You can’t.”

He stares at Akira for a long, long moment. The boy doesn’t look at him back. The boy, his boy, but not _his_ , is he? He is Oliver’s, at least in the capacity that he has given his heart to that man.

“Somebody,” he begins, carefully. He doesn’t have a heart for it to pound, yet he still feels the phantom beats heavy in his chest. It’s probably psychological. It’s probably algorithmic. “Somebody once told me, _If you give me a blessing, I would not question it._ ”

Akira’s hands still on the material. The reprise of his own words seems to have captured his attention, for his breathing stutters and his shoulders tense.

“This might be… the logical conclusion. That Oliver Kitamura has always loved you. In which case, the same memories would always yield the same result; so you would have little luck resetting me.” He slowly straightens up. “Or it might be that I am the one who has always loved you, whoever or whatever I am. I don’t want you to suffer. Perhaps I love you as much as Oliver Kitamura did, or perhaps I love you even more. It matters not how that love came to be. I, as I exist, care for you with as much free will that I can express.”

Akira finally looks up, cheeks flushed, pale eyes wet with unshed tears, lips parted in the beginning of the word But.

“And if you do not accept that,” he follows up, “then please destroy me. I don’t believe there is a way to remove this sentiment.”

He pauses, and enunciates with utter care:

“I love you, Akira.”

The gods only know what conflicts are playing out in Akira’s mind. His lips still quiver despite his jaws bunching and his teeth clamping down on the inside of his mouth, worryingly tight, like it might draw blood. His breaths are so light it makes one wonder if he is taking in any air at all. His gaze is simultaneously dazed and soul-piercing, like the eyes of a tortured seer. He is frightened and in pain, but he holds himself so open, every shudder of emotions evident in the twitch of his lip corner, the flutter of his lashes. So when his answer conceives, resolution dawns on his features as well, in the form of gentled lips and relaxed shoulders. Akira blinks, and the tears spill from his eyes.

“I love you too, Oliver.”

Oliver smiles, hearing his name for the first time.

  
_End._   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We now ask the question, ‘What will happen when a machine takes the part of [a player] in this game?’ Will the interrogator decide wrongly as often when the game is played like this as he does when the game is played between a man and a woman? These questions replace our original, ‘Can machines think?’”  
>  — A. Turing, _Computing Machinery and Intelligence_ (1950). This so-dubbed imitation game is also often referred to as _the Turing test_.


End file.
